


Cradle Song

by All_This_Wildness



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Child Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Forced Feminization, Frottage, Incest, M/M, Marking, Mouth trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Teeth, Underage - Freeform, Underage Sex, in a fashion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22802359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_This_Wildness/pseuds/All_This_Wildness
Summary: How do you make a god? How does one forge him, and from what? A song makes him, a pair of fists unmakes him, a knife frees him. A lamb into the fire, and out in burnished gold. This is where it begins.(Pre-game, Higgs childhood, graphically depicted childhood trauma and abuse. If you’re not here for it, please don’t read.)
Relationships: Higgs Monaghan/Daddy
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hush little baby, don’t you cry...you know your mother was born to die.

Angel feet, padding down the hall.  
  
The kid crept more than walked, in their limited space, in the little corridor that led to stairs, that led to Outside. He crept. He crawled, from time to time, though he’d left infancy behind long ago. The scrape of flesh versus synthetic floor was easy enough for him to track--anything was simpler than the mass of noise that lay outside the doors. Outside their world.   
  
Well.   
  
**His** world.   
  
Daddy kept secrets from him, kept most things locked away. Daddy left from time to time, to “upstairs,” but he’d never divulged that upstairs was the entirety of the world.   
  
But as his weathered boots clomped in solemnity down the stairs, he could hear the skulking and skittering of that lithe little creature back into the hovel of their residence. Angel feet, pittering their way back to his little corner, to the piled blankets and pillows that he treasured more often than sharing the singular bed, to blankets riddled with holes and pillows long fallen flat. Light as the feathers they held.   
  
Their particular press, their denoted stealth was most likely a result of their cohabitation. Unfortunate. To some. A dalliance, to others. A focus, to him.   
  
Winged at the ankles, but flight feathers clipped.   
  
After all, he’d heard her clearly, when she was carrying him. As much as she caterwauled about the roundness in her belly, and how it had gotten there, he’d _heard her_ . Little whispers and coos, dotingly designating the parasite within “angel, angel.” Hands, stroking over her fullness and sighing in maternal delight. He’d heard, and knew the impish thing was holy, whether it wanted to be or not. It didn’t matter.   
  
Angel, angel, and his traipsing, clumsy, stupid fucking feet.   
  
First matter of business had been getting inside, and now he had a right mind to chase it down, to chase _him_ down, and give him a proper welcome back littered with some well-earned criticism for lingering in the hallway where he wasn’t supposed to be. But--second matter of business became his boots instead, caked with mud, blackened unnaturally. And as he grunted, as he seated himself on the bench in the hallway to shrug them off of his own aching soles, he noted the glint and glare of two mirrors from that cozy little corner.   
  
“You’re staring.”   
  
He called it out, and his voice was firm, but tired, laced back and forth like a tapestry with the weariness that came from running messages manually, and carrying whatever bullshit happened to be foisted upon his shoulders. Not that he was too old, not that he wasn’t strong enough. Every ounce and inch still had use and power. But the world? It was fucked, and he carried that notion wherever he went, filling the empty air inside every piece of damnable cargo.   
  
No answer.   
  
He paused. Daddy set his lips in a line.   
  
Maybe it...shouldn’t have bothered him, the insolence. The disobedience. But something sang through his bones when silence came back instead of his usual greeting.   
  
So his head snapped up, and blue focused on blue-silver, made it squeeze shut and shrink, tugged the tiniest inhale of fear from tiny lungs.   
  
“...You’re staring.”   
  
“Ain’t now, Daddy.”   
  
Quick. Breathy. Counter-tenor. He had nearly stuttered. Stutter would’ve come out of his ass, or at least somewhere near to it, or connected through his little seraphim body--track to track.   
  
The elder man dragged one veteran knuckle across the skin just below his bottom lip, and the same hand made a journey upward to swipe back through short blonde hair, receding to a point, now that he was advancing in years. His palm settled at the back of his neck, and he squeezed, then released.   
  
Boots. Right.   
  
Lacings, latchings, all of it was undone, his trousers rolled up to make the way somewhat easier, though they still proved a puzzle. Often he didn’t give a shit, and would stomp in for his evening drink without a care, but this was too much mud, as the sky above was quaking with unnatural rain and screaming alive with ghosts.   
  
Argyle woolen socks lay beneath (antiques), worn with one hole through the heel. He rose upon them, and let his neck roll as he passed through the doorway and officially into his home.   
  
Fridge. Mostly filled with beer, which he aimed to fetch a can of now. It wasn’t particularly well-stocked, aside from rations, and what fresh food he could barter for. He’d probably fix something for dinner tonight, as he’d managed to get beef. Simple pan-stewed beef and root vegetables. So many potatoes and varied tubers. When life shifted underground, so too did the food, but there was nutrition still to be had.   
  
Dirty, nourishing things grew better out of the light of day.   
  
Which reminded him.   
  
His dirty thumbnail tugged the tab of the can before lingering at the zipper of his jumpsuit, drawing it down mid-chest. He swallowed thrice, and then remarked in a measured, but sublimely disappointed tone.   
  
“Don’t think you’ve greeted me yet, kid.” He remarked, and leaned on their humble kitchen table, bolted sturdily and immovable to the floor. “Kind of rude, don’t you think?”   
  
A moment’s silence, and then he was on the move. Scrambling, Scraping. Angel, angel.   
  
If mommy could see him now.   
  
He took another drink as, upright, the boy now approached him.   
  
“Welcome home.”   
  
A mumble at best. Shy, a hint at hopeful affection, but most importantly...fright. And shouldn’t he be afraid? After all, he was speaking to the one being in his life. His alpha and omega, the beginning and the end. Some part of the man’s neck pricked, bubbled in bliss at the thought. His little canary circled a round cage, and always found himself back at his hand.   
  
In the fluorescent glare of kitchen light, Daddy noted the purpling beneath one of those moon-silvered azure eyes had faded to something more negligable, and a smile spread over his mouth, even as he drank a bit more. “See? That’s more like it, boy.”   
  
Always boy. Kid. Shit, bitch, mutt, cunt. Maybe “sport” if he was feeling particularly affectionate. Angel of course, if he cared to worship, which was seldom. Sure, he’d been christened. Sure, he had a name. But it was easier to keep something in bondage if it didn’t know what it was. Or who...if it did indeed qualify as a “who.” Daddy supposed the little one did. After all, he’d been chosen specially, he’d brought him forth, in a haze of tears and screaming. He might as well be someone. Maybe someday. For now he was just the afterbirth, the cherub mangled by a fall from a predestined heaven.   
  
Just the same, he was Daddy. He hadn’t always been Daddy, much the same as the slender thing burdened with childhood softness before him hadn’t always been boy-kid-shit-bitch-mutt-cunt. He’d been a real man with a real name for far, far longer than the mere wraith standing before him. Names had been rendered need-to-know the day he’d held a squalling infant in his arms and stared at it with wondrous disgust and amazement.   
  
The same palm that had cradled the back of his own neck now scruffed that of the child’s held it, cradled it, rolled in a circle that may have been considered soothing if it wasn’t for the ever-present malice beneath his tone, sizzling away like an acid about the break the surface any moment.   
  
Ever present, same as the scent of dust in the ventilation and the soft blue glow of the screen in front of the utilitarian sofa. Lightbulb sun.   
  
Under his touch, the boy nearly melted. But there was a rigidity to his spine that had been fostered lately, a certain stiffness that his pliable nature hadn’t given previously. Boy becoming a man? No, too much baby fat still left for that, too much roundness in a face that seemed to want desperately from time to time to be gaunt. Cheekbones. Her cheekbones. Her breakable, **fuckable** cheekbones.   
  
Daddy rumbled low, grabbed the back of his neck now, ignored a squeak of protest and dragged all nine years of him in close, against something more solid, namely his own body. Plucked him up, bent down just to lay the most downy brush of lips against the fading bruise. Hardly a kiss, more so sensating the way that small hand smacked up against his chest, and the mark of abuse flinched backward.   
  
“Hm.” Clinical, the way he used his other hand to drag the boy’s head back. Found other marks in the same way. Jaw, throat. One just behind his ear. His torso had been spared on that occasion, but his legs?   
  
...He’d get to his legs.   
  
“Haven’t been...pushing on these, have you?” A quick head shake, fighting against the grip in his hair, and Daddy pulled back long enough to eye him, long enough to turn with him and lift the runt onto the table he’d been leaning against. His usual tired drawl sharpened, and the consonants were immediately enunciated as some form of mocking example. He prided himself on his ability to teach. “I’d better hear you using some words from that wet-pussy mouth of yours, or you’re gonna speak in tongues. You remember what that means?”   
  
Tongues meant screaming. Tongues meant sobbing.   
  
Rigid again, that spine. He could almost smell the adolescence creeping into him.   
  
“.......I ain’t bee--”   
  
“Haven’t.”   
  
“Haven’t been. Daddy.”   
  
Unblinking, but not uncaring, he watched him, stared now as the thing had stared at him when he’d first gotten home from his excursion, but without the trepidation. The language was his own fault, his accent seeping through the cracks in more heated moments. It could be pounded out in time. Mistakes happened.   
  
He took a long, heaving inhale into the capacity of smoker’s lungs, and nodded. “Good. That’s good.” And it was...because if a bruise was rubbed too deep into, too soon, it’d break up the darkness of it and leave only a pale thing. Pain had to be ridden all the way through, and by god, his charge was going to remember that his whole sorry life. Part of his mouth quirked up, the returning smile. “Real good.”   
  
All nine years of him shuddered, hands fisted in the oversized shirt he wore. Not anything else. Not after the way he’d left him bleeding...probably hadn’t had the stamina to put anything else on.   
  
All nine years of lessons, of discipline. Of caution. Of memories, rolled into this biological time capsule, of her eyes, her hair. God, the least the kid could have done is been a blonde like him.   
  
He snorted at the thought.   
  
Hair dye. Maybe. Another day.   
  
For now, he glanced down. His legs. He had to see how they’d developed.   
  
Polaroid pictures were now a thing of the past. This one didn’t have the sharp edges, surely didn’t require a shake. It didn’t stop him upon occasion. But no, those colors had gained depth all on their own, the swell of clotting blood beneath practically transluscent, ethereal flesh. Black, blue, green, with the more sickly brown around the edges beginning to take over. 

Largely on his thighs. Half moons, near-full ones that almost connected in lopsided circles, made by the asserted dominance of his full-grown teeth. 

Those limbs were...twiggy. Sure. But they kept enough musculature from how the kid clambered all around the shelter, held enough weight that they could be pleasantly defaced, a throwback to rebellion in his teenage years streaking the sides of buildings with garish paint. Those days were gone, though. Now was the time of marking the little bundle left him by a corpse duty-gone. 

Daddy hummed, the sound far back in his throat, his appreciation apparent. The kid tried to close his legs when he thumbed them apart. Tried to pull his shirt down. 

Where was this reluctance coming from? This shift in attitude? Those damn books…

It took a moment for the man to realize that his teeth were trying the pliant, wet flesh of his inner lip. Corrections. Coercions. The little one wouldn’t get to forget his training, his conditioning with such ease. 

“The **fuck** are you doing, baby?”

“Doing” nearly lost the “g” at the end, the curve of the question mark curving with slow and measured vehemence into the way his gravelled tone lifted, and his fingers dragged over the indentation of his own molars on his little charge’s little thighs. 

Yet as much as his insolence annoyed him, Daddy had to admit...his cock ached with the way the petite brunette’s knees threatened to smash together, until he ripped them back apart. Further apart. Forcing him wide, and tipping him back on the humble table. The down on his pre-adolescent legs present astride either side of a sex far smaller and not swollen at all, and the pucker beneath...he noted how that tiny muscle twitched. 

Tiny, yes. Still virgin. That baptism was coming, but not yet. He had a few more birthdays before he’d be broken in like a yearling and ridden twice as hard. This wasn’t the moment, but it didn’t stop the porter from rolling his thumb in a nearly-endeared swipe over the pinkened bud. Or from a threatening press inward-but-not-in. 

The little cry up above, fists tangled in a shirt and shoving down again. He almost lamented having to cuff the kid’s pretty face. 

That didn’t mean he hesitated. 

His chest swelled with breath as he watched him collapse backward, as he saw him shudder and try to roll onto his side and go fetal. What else could he do?

Daddy’s hand slipped down and he palmed himself, the smile of self-satisfaction that curved his lips bordering on reflecting his deviance, his indulgence. Idly, he stroked himself and drawled. “What are you gonna do, huh? Hide from me? You think your pussy is yours now for some reason?” One hand slowly closed around an ankle, and he was dragged from his curled position back to the edge of the table. “Or were you plannin’ on crawlin’ back up inside your momma’s dead, worm-riddled cunt just like that?”

He licked his lips. 

_He’d find and fuck him there just the same._

The blonde squeezed himself, then extracted the swell of his stocky erection from his slacks, slow and even. 

“Look at me.”

Silence. 

A beat. 

His hand fisted in dusty hair, banged that head once into the table, and then the boy was rolling and staring as asked with eyes wide, mouth open, his cheek split from that single punch. 

The man bobbed his head in a nod. “That’s better. Much better. Now make your legs tight.”

Clearly, the action was rote. Learned from sessions of this, learned from previous encounters. Daddy clicked his tongue when the kid hesitated, but then he clenched his immature thighs and drew them up partway to his chest. Learned but not loved. 

Days spent trodding the landscape of hell left a man wanting for comfort when he came home. And what was better than this—a soft place to bury himself, to finish off his stress and anxieties?

She’d blessed him. She really had, with this foolish little gift. She wasn’t around to thank, but some minuscule part of him did so anyway, in silence, from his subconscious. Yes, she’d been meant for it, her husband the necessary chaff. But oh, the souvenir she’d left behind—it was imperfect, but worth whatever sin she’d carried in its stead. 

Teasingly, the head of his cock nudged up against the hole below, drawing an agonized gasp and a squirm, before he latched his fingers tight around developing hips and instead rutted the fullness of himself against and then through the crease of pressed-together legs. He spat onto his length to make gliding against that mottled skin easier. 

Stippled seraphim thighs became his slit, his veritable empty womb, and he wrapped an arm around the boy’s thighs as the friction carried him through, allowed him to frot with the sex beyond a bit, which he noted after a few strokes started to make the youth swell along with him. 

Ah. 

Still his after all. 

His teeth bared. Daddy hummed again, echoed the one before, but this time decorated his timbre with the self-satisfaction of just how lovely it was to know shame and pleasure still seated in the kid, right where he wanted them. 

Faster, he fucked his legs, and shoved up the massive shirt, though not far enough to dull the sounds of soft agony pealing from that little mouth at how he rubbed into and against his bruises. How could he muffle such music, the cacophony that broke up the usual bore, the soft hum of artificial lighting and the pitter-patter of feet?

Breath huffed out through his nostrils. He fucked those battered limbs, the limited space between them, and as he did so, he growled out moans betwixt muttered filth. 

“There you go. Just like you’re meant. Mmmmgh—just like you’re made, you limp-dicked fuck...tight and small and soft...shame you don’t got a proper pussy, y’know?” The slide of his voice into that accent, his southern heritage demanding the loss of an occasional consonant or vowel...it might have bothered him. Normally would have. But it didn’t even register, as his tension built low in his barreled gut. “We could feed your juices back into you, spit ‘em into your mouth.”

“D—…” The boy labored for a breath. Chest heaving, and he hadn’t even been properly penetrated. His palms locked over his uncle’s, and squeezed tight, like someone riding a rollercoaster in days of yore for the first time. “Daddy, th—...bruises hurt.” He choked. Sobbed. Tears wound their way down soft, sculpted cheeks. “They hur—“

One hand wrested out from beneath the more pliant one, and three fingers shoved between the boy’s lips, rendering him not completely silent, but entirely incoherent. 

There wasn’t a need for words. Not as he filed out the old contusions with his dick and laid out blueprints for the new. Yes, the invasion of those lips meant more struggling, but he never got anywhere. Not really. There was nowhere to go. 

The scratch of nails in his thick arm wouldn’t go unpunished, but it was easily ignored for the time being, as he pumped harder, slammed up hard enough against the bolted table’s edge to even make it quake despite its fastenings. His pet’s knees were nearly back to his chest, and their sexes, old and new, now rubbed together more firm, due to the angle and the growing slack in his legs. 

“Mine.” 

He whispered it as he reached, as he flipped his hand to stroke his fingers along the ridged roof of a young mouth, seeking imperfections. He hooked his grip there hard, his thumb impressed outside on the boy’s face, just below the new break there on his cheek, where color had already started to form. Polaroid. Again, he repeated it, with just as much meaning, which was hardly any at all:

“ _Mine_.”

The boy arched. And as he did, his Daddy’s hips slammed him back down. The friction at last gave its blessing, and with a sound ripped somewhere from his very spine, the man came. He loosed himself over pre-pubescent sex, over the shirt, what belly and chest were exposed. He smeared it, palmed his cum still-warm against that shaft that couldn’t produce any yet, and barked it a third time. 

“ **_Mine._ **”

And then a funny thing happened. A new thing. An atrocity. 

His twisted, senseless angel bit him. 

Milk teeth dug into his skin, snapped tight into callouses roughened from day after day spent thankless carrying cargo for others. 

Blue stared. Silver-blue stared back. 

His cock oozed another lazy spurt of cum on that lean belly. 

It didn’t take long for the imp to realize his mistake, to disengage and withdraw. He turned his head sideways, squeezed his eyes shut, and waited for punishment. Kicked dogs expected further kicking. 

Teeth worried the inside of his cheek this time, and he stepped back. Eyed the offended hand. His skin had only broken in one small notch from a baby incisor. As small as the kid had been when he was born—premature as he was—his teeth were largely those he’d broken in during infancy. He’d only lost a couple so far. Late bloomer. 

Daddy shoved his sex away, zipped himself up, and commented with tone too idle. “Your mouth is changing.” The “g” was back. “I don’t know if I like it.”

Harder breathing, panicked breaths pumping too hard from a small chest. 

He clicked his tongue, shook his head. “...Change your shirt into your own fucking clothes, you’re a mess. Get ready for dinner.”

It was all that needed to be said. Skittering off like an errant cockroach with the lights flipped on, he was off like a flash. He didn’t watch him go. 

He simply looked at his hand, even as he stepped aside, and the other strayed to unlock the fridge once more. Fish out a pack of beef they’d been saving. 

Change. That specific evolution brought on by the shift of hormones. He’d experienced teenage unruliness himself, but never seen it in someone else. Could it be coming on so quick, when the brat had been so stunted?

How much longer did he have?

He issued a low grunt, and slapped the package of meat on the counter, suckled his injured knuckle. Time marched on, and re-education had to be put into practice soon. 

Something had to be done about that damn mouth. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how can I be poor dear when there’s gold in my baby’s curls  
> your dear little teeth are like so many pearls

The composition of the “Happy Birthday” song originated in its lack thereof. Supposedly birthed in a schoolhouse in what had been Louisville, Kentucky by two sisters working there as teachers, the melody was lifted from the popular children’s tune, “Good Morning to All.”

Easy to sing. Easy to repeat. 

Even after the decay of society, and the washout of humanity as a whole, some things remained the same. 

They gathered together when they could, and sang the praises of another piss-washed year on this derelict rock still assumed to be spinning around an assumed sun. 

It was the angel’s tenth birthday. 

Not that he knew it. Or was going to know it. Any birth announcements or intended files concerning the exact date of his being ripped from mommy’s guts had been burned or purged ages ago. Little under ten years, in fact. 

The way he shook, the way he quivered in his lap...Birthday jitters, Daddy thought, Daddy mused to himself, but didn’t say the damndest thing. 

After all, they were in a constant state of celebration now. No more going to the “room upstairs.” No more mud tracked in, no more packages to deliver. He had retired, effectively, from life beyond the vehicle bay up above. His wanton imp was his full time project now, and said imp was growing incredible, pressing upon the boundaries of impressive, in his devotion, in his benedictions to the elder man and only companion. 

He believed. 

The fucking cunt actually  _ believed _ what he was fed, the lies, the insistence on the lack of an outside world. Daddy had thought, had considered that maybe in his growing adolescence, he’d get smart. But no, not yet, not time, not so. His cherub remained stupid and beautiful, straddling a thigh far thicker than his own. 

One hand had tangled into his downy hair, which curled just slightly at the ends. Stroking, more in the affectation one would afford a cat, or some other kicked animal. Rubbing his scalp. Maybe, just maybe, a sneaking tug, largely to feel those straddling thighs grip his own in instinctual fear, and perhaps anticipation.

Another year older, another year bolder, but forced into a meekness that made his own guts wrench in the most pleasant of ways. 

He felt empowered, he felt God in his veins every time that quaking boy wasn’t allowed to pull away. 

The screen beyond them both played an assortment of old files, old media he’d managed to scrounge. Nothing too revolutionary, nothing that would stir a coup in the thing that almost unknowingly rode his thigh. Not in his kingdom, where all was controlled. The current flick was a western. Violent. But the kid was rapt, head doubtless full of scenarios he couldn’t process or fathom, delightful in the way he flinched at gunshots, or looked to his Daddy in unease when the villain grabbed a handful of the distraught female lead’s ass. 

The latter he found somewhat concerning. Was he asking for protection, or did he see himself as the victim, and his benevolent protector as that dark, evil man? 

It didn’t matter. Not in the large scale of things. But it  **did** cause his ego to sting, an aching pang that his sole subject and devotee would dare impress such an image upon him. Insulting, when all he’d known was benevolence. 

It didn’t stop the boy from snuggling into his clothed chest, though, when Daddy rumbled his displeasure. An attempt at calming whatever anger might build. Sometimes, he wasn’t stupid. Not entirely. 

He’d taught him all he knew, after all. 

The hand in his hair slid down a bare back, seated in the small of his back, negotiating stripes from the lick of his belt, bite marks. Always bite marks. 

For once, he avoided those reddenings, and instead settled his large palm over his hip. 

Clench of angel thighs. Release. Ten years. Closer to his planned date of exaltation. 

“You like this one.”

There was a pause. A bob of a head in a nod, a nobbly one, exaggerated in the way only a youth might. “Yeah.”

Another rumble, but this one was far more pleased. Reasonable. 

Of course, he had his reasoning for nearly everything he did in this, his humble home. This film had been chosen for a purpose. 

Reason being, he wanted a fucking cunt. 

Not that little cherry between the kid’s thighs. That one hadn’t met its ripened date yet.

But there was the problem of those lips, the ones that babbled, stuttered nonsense, adopted an accent that slurred his speech, ironically akin to those same cowboys on the screen. Those lips held a mouth, and what was an unknowing mouth but a second pussy, plush and inviting in its own way? Daddy considered it at that moment, watched how it was parted, just so. How it bore the dew of juices within. 

Lubrication to press into a throat that was bound to be so much tighter than his mother had been. 

The muscle of the man’s jaw worked for a moment, flexed, relaxed, flexed again.

Perhaps the normal reflex would have been to kiss him, as the love scene started to play. But what was their microcosm, if anything but normal? There would be no kissing. There would be no attachment in that normal sense. But there would be a boy at the altar on his knees.   
  
Bombshell blonde on the screen. Sliding between our hero’s knees. Her place. His place.   
  
Daddy couldn’t help the way his fingers clutched at a hip, at the slightest cushion of baby fat. He couldn’t help leaning in, scenting the milk of his dead, screaming sister that still clung to the kid like a bad omen. Like a portent of something, just slightly spoiled, but otherwise soft and pleasant.   
  
“You see what she’s doing there?”   
  
Of course he did. He was rapt. Fascinated by what he didn’t comprehend, but from the way he’d stiffened, at least in part his angel comprehended. From the forcing of his fingers in the same orifice, from the touching, the blessed laying of hands upon his fragile un-developed body, and the less holy battery that he was more wont to perform when he could get a decent amount of liquor or beer on hand.   
  
But still, the bob of his dopey little brunette head pleased the elder man, made his own previously raised champagne brows settle.    
  
Positioned as he was, he thought he’d feel drunk, his breath dewy on the kid’s ear, his prize being wholly claimed tonight. Honestly, the plan had been to drink, to celebrate as fully as possible. Supplies had come limited. Foiled. So instead, he shifted gears and decided to treat himself in a different manner, in relinquishing himself to a more wanton need. So he thought he’d feel drunk, high, something.   
  
He felt dreadfully sober.   
  
Things in the room seemed...sharper. The edges of the sofa. The chair in the distance. Even the pile of blankets on the floor where his little charge nested seemed to have been whetted by something he couldn’t name. Primal, this vision, and everything made him sharp in response, made him tempted to lance that little shell with a vicious bite, as the child was all that remained soft.   
  
Back on the screen, they bore witness to what could only be described as a shoddy blowjob. Dodgy camera angles. The film had only gotten an R rating, so they couldn’t very well show her swallowing cock. Yet his excitement grew, as her tears of gratitude rolled down her simple, sweet cheeks.    
  
The hand that had been on the boy’s waist shot up, grabbed his jaw. Didn’t let him look away from the scene.    
  
“Do you understand?”   
  
The question came, heated but vague. Sure, he probably knew that he was an orifice by now. A receptacle, a gift given by his mother in her stead, now that she was off fucking other ghosts.  _ Do you understand? _ A query based in pre-possessed knowledge that he couldn’t possibly transfer to him outside of another lesson. It’d lead in. Not pretty. But it’d lead.   
  
Sure enough, the little brunette shook his head sharply, once, at least as far as he could get it to go. His hand was wheeling backward, trying to steady himself on his Daddy, trying to anchor him somewhere, trying to turn to look at his “protector.” He wasn’t allowed.   
  
His dick throbbed at the struggle. More later. For now, he’d clarify.   
  
“What she’s doing.”   
  
A simple enough addendum.    
  
Another shake. A squirm. A squeeze of angelic thighs on his own leg. “Nah--...no. She’s kissing him…?”   
  
He couldn’t help the way his brash smoker’s mouth wheezed at the question. His obtuse little doll. So much to learn, and yet...so much he would never get to know.    
  
Only the important things.   
  
“She’s making herself good for him. Showing gratitude. Pleasing him.”   
  
That much seemed to make sense to the urchin. He could feel it in his spine when he dragged him back against him. When he scooted forward on the couch to adjust their joint position, and pull one of those young, pale thighs, dotted with freckles on the outer flank, between his own. Something to rub against, to enthuse himself with whilst he primed other parts for their intended purpose. Something  **soft** .   
  
“Y’know...now that I don’t have to work upstairs, I’m going to be spending a lot more time here. Does that excite you?”

Silence commanded the space for a moment. That was hardly allowed. Daddy cuffed his boy’s head lightly, and the response was more immediate. “Yeah, y-yeah, you’ll spend all your time with me.”   
  
A cluck of his tongue, as he snatched up a control and paused the video.   
  
“...Around you.”   
  
A slump of lean, delicate shoulders. Shoulders that were building in mass as the waif grew. Signalling disappointment.   
  
His lips curled, and he nudged his nose close to that ear again. “With you, maybe, if you quit these fits you’ve been having. With you, if...hm.” The pause the elder made here was practically theatrical in how he released that chin, in how he rolled his sharp blue gaze up to look at the ceiling. “If you show a little gratitude.”   
  
“...Like that woman.”   
  
Smart. Like his mother. Almost too smart. That could be cut out of him with some finesse. At any rate, it was the answer he desired, even if the tone bordered somewhat on suspicion.   
  
So he gave another pronounced, experienced roll of his hips against a marked-up thigh. Shoved his yet-clothed dick against it rather pointedly. “Like that woman.” He echoed, though with a far more sinister undertone than a child’s unsure tenor could relay.   
  
He was looking at him now, with his jaw freed. Looking. But what did he see? It was hard to say, but the fear that was constantly beneath the silver in that silver-and-blue satiated Daddy in a manner that could not be articulated in any human tongue.    
  
But staring was rude, and an admonishing look reminded the kid. There was something incredibly luscious in the manner in which he looked away, dodged the bullet, but didn’t escape its trajectory entirely, and suffered for it with a little metaphorical bleed. 

There would be more of that today. More of it, and it wouldn’t remain wholly in the realm of metaphor. 

The song, the dreaded tune,

(happy birthday to you)

seemed to beat itself out in a slow, lazy drawl, before Daddy fisted his hand tight in downy locks that still needed a more golden tinge, one more like his own, and dragged him downward to hell between his own stepped-apart thighs. “What are you waiting for?”

Clearly, instruction. Clearly, from the way those silver-blue eyes were beginning to stare up at him with more defiance, with a riot building behind them—a need to get away. 

Baby need was trumped by adult want, though, and soon enough his well-won plaything was on its knees with its delicate face shoved in the apex of his slacks. His necessary position, his necessary meal in preparation, nearly about to come out of the goddamn oven. And it was past time. Far past time, with how his cock strained, with how his body had reacted to their impending activity. A perfect cunt formed for him, in lieu of two more years, in lieu of his inevitable destruction and rebirth. With these thoughts resting heavy, Daddy unleashed himself, slung out that massive, erect organ, and compared the reddened swell of it to the spatter of freckles upon the pale, pale cheek of his errant boy.  
  
His hair was getting long, he noted. It would be cut soon. Cut. Bleached. They’d be a matching pair, the greater and the lesser. And the cherub wouldn’t know any better.  
  
And that was **all the better**.  
  
Wistful, the way the elder man sighed, the way he shifted, the way he smacked himself with little grace or care once, then twice, against that pleasant petal of a cheek. But he could only wait so long, as he was already threatening to dew at the tip.  
  
So against his lips he pressed.  
  
The boy’s eyes widened. Fear. Confusion. A pleasant enough combination, twisting in tight like two wires and firing quickly. His boy, his damnable, blessed, beautiful fool of a child, tried to pull away from him. Daddy couldn’t decide: did he prefer that to complacence, or did he want the thing to take it like the bitch he was meant to be? It wasn’t that he had a choice. Angel still had free will, whether he liked it or not. For the moment, he liked it.  
  
It didn’t take much to worm his way past those lips, to make him take him in. It didn’t take much either, to drag a groan, worn well past pleasure and nearly even now pushed to the point of his lust-addled madness.  
  
It also didn’t take much time for him to try and bite.  
  
There wasn’t much drama to it. No blood was spilled, no blood that _mattered_. But the animal brain that still resided in the child’s head fought him, and fought him hard. His jaw twitched, and the impression of those little biters, those tiny, pearly whites, made him nearly jump. He nearly cuffed him, nearly tore him off of his sex to show him what inflicting pain on his elders meant. But there was a pause. No need to drag him away, no need to inflict that nonsense when that thought he’d had previously came to wind itself tight throughout and within every part of his consciousness:  
  
_Something had to be done about that damn mouth._  
  
He’d borne it for far too long. Far, far too long. The glisten of bone, poking through skin. Little baby teeth, mocking him. Possessions his little angel wasn’t allowed. That didn’t belong.  
  
He found a gap in them, wedged a pointer finger there, and pulled him open just enough, and freed his sex, though he kept it pressed tight up against that face. Something got pulled from his lungs on an unseen fishhook, a sound that resonated and pulsed through each and every one of his ribs, one by one by one.   
  
And then he fisted his hand in the kid’s hair, not bothering to put himself away.  
  
He stood.  
  
He dragged.  
  
There was a toolbox in the corridor. A big one. The kid didn’t know what it was for, but largely it contained the necessary components for tuning his porter gear. Slicked with a bit of elbow grease in places, used and well-loved, nocked from familiarity and the occasional toss of frustration.   
  
Second drawer down. He knew that much. Though he didn’t sort them properly, didn’t alphabetize them as others might, didn’t keep them neat and tidy, he knew the second drawer housed a set of nasty, locking, needle-nosed pliers that would do  
  
just  
  
_goddamn_  
  
**fine**.

  
Screams to accompany. No pitter patter, rather the kick, the flail of angel feet, of bare legs. For however obedient this imp had become, that riot was still rising in him. No point in denying it. Age was pulling his thrall closer to a rebellion, and it had be quelled quickly, lest it instigate something that couldn’t be reversed.    
  
Yes, of course, he could be culled. Yes, of course another could be made. But the source wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t have her hips. Her eyes. Her sternness. It wouldn’t have the way she stroked over his back when he couldn’t sleep. It wouldn’t mimic her laugh, her mannerisms without even knowing it. It wouldn’t be from the same womb that bore him as well. It wouldn’t wail as she did, when he pressed within her. It wouldn’t cause the same, moon-shaped crescents in his arms, same as sister-mommy dearest, when it clawed in protest. Resource had run out when he’d pulled his baby from his sister’s blood-pooled offal and watched the light die in her eyes, same as her husband had months before.   
  
This clay, this misshapen, imperfect thing was all he had to work with. He could break it, bruise it over and over again, but to rend him apart entirely wasn’t an option. He would be made to fit. And the current fit concerned those milk teeth that one day might have snatched at mommy’s tit, if she’d ever been given a snowball’s chance.   
  
Daddy did cuff him now. Enough to daze him, knock him to the floor. It’d be better if he was laying down, he decided.    
  
Wasn’t like he had a dentist’s chair, or a dentist’s training. He had a knowledge of porting, and occasionally, of death.   
  
“You want this, you know.”   
  
Mirror eyes, hinted with sky, stared up from the floor, and he stared back, crouched over the lad as he pulled the second drawer open. They were right where they were supposed to be.   
  
“You said it yourself. You want to be good. You want this more than you could possibly say.”   
  
Maybe there was some...misplaced affection, in the way he tapped those pliers against the kid’s nose, in spite of how tired, how disappointed he sounded. That tap started the sobs. And that caterwauling went straight to his still-free-still-quaking dick. It always had. It always would.   
  
_ Mine _ .   
  
Daddy’s knees settled on either side of the boy’s chest. After a brief struggle, and a moment’s thought and manipulation, he managed to get his twiggy little arms wedged up under his calves. That would do, better than any fists flying. He’d have his obedience back. None of this heresy. He’d be perfect, or he’d suffer.   
  
And then he’d be perfect in his suffering.   
  
The tap was lower this time, against roseate lips. “Open.”   
  
Sob-sniffle-sob-sob.   
  
The now-former porter drew in a breath, slow. Every pocket of his lungs swelled with it, with the essence of tears, supremacy snug in his mind like a warm, comfortable embrace. Yes. Here it was, their dynamic, their needs met. It was better this way. It was best.   
  
That breath came out, after a few moments, in a harsh bark. A demand, of his wretched charge, almost as if it came in an entirely different language, a tongue that one could only speak to the masses, charged with more electricity than their flickering artificial lights.   
  
“ **Open** .”   
  
Oh, he heard, he listened, he swallowed, and then those luscious petioles parted to give him the bounty he so very much deserved. It wasn’t far. But it was enough.   
  
Metal slid in. Clicked, against the row of baby teeth on the bottom.   
  
He set himself back into his memory. When he’d found out she was pregnant, he did his part. Really, he did. He’d looked into how to treat bumps and cuts, immunizations. He’d definitely seen the ages that children gained and lost and gained again, their various display of teeth. But in the heat, in between the hiccuping sobs that smeared the kid’s face with snot, and the way his cock twitched, it was a blank slate. It was confusing enough, considering he’d been premature, and a late bloomer. They’d come in slow and uneven.   
  
Which ones had he watched him yank out, staring at his pale expression in the mirror? Which ones had he already swallowed? Fuck if he knew. And fuck if he cared.   
  
The man shifted, then grasped one, low, in the middle.   
  
“You see...you’re growing up.” It was all he could do to control himself. To remain that stellar obelisk. The example. The golden idol. No accent here, not when he wanted an articulate little fuck thanking him afterward. “And the thing is...adulthood isn’t for you, boy. It’s not. You don’t like pain enough yet.”    
  
Here, he gave his first, quivering pull.   
  
With a man’s strength, and that head pinned, it was...so  _ easy _ .   
  
It came out, and for a moment, his monologue was taken from him. That little bone, the tip and root of it...a darling thing. A keepsake. Small and snug in that mouth, now free to show off opalescent wonder. Bone, bone that he’d nurtured, grown with specialized formula dripped down a needy gullet.    
  
It belonged to him, same as the rest.    
  
At some point, he remembered himself, and noticed that the boy was staring. Not at him, at that admired thing he held between them.    
  
Some composure was regained, as he reached, as he snatched up a little tray whose normal use was to keep track of nuts and bolts. Teeth were just as worthy.   
  
“You don’t have the callouses for it.” At last, his train of thought regained.    
  
Daddy grasped an incisor now. The most feral of teeth. It couldn’t wait,  **he** couldn’t wait. Not with how his dick hung heavy, not with what he was taking apart and building again.    
  
“You will. Soon. Soon, you’re gonna feel...going to feel what it’s like, adulthood.” This one required more. A wrench of the wrist. A tug. A twist, back and forward, with his free hand straining tight in brunette locks, the opposite direction. And oh, when it finally popped loose, he was fed with another wail. “And who knows? Maybe you’ll love it. Maybe you’ll slit your skinny little throat the first chance you get.   
  
“But you sure as  **_fuck_ ** haven’t earned these teeth yet.”   
  
Somewhere, in the babbling, he could translate apologies. Promises to do better. It didn’t matter, not now, with the pliers wet in that luscious little cavern, snatching out treasures and setting them in no small count in the metal tray. Just the front ones. He supposed he needed those molars, to chew his cud, to munch away in silent gratitude at whatever fodder was offered him.    
  
Perfect.   
  
Occasionally, he’d roll his head to the side with that same anchor in the boy-cunt’s boy hair, let him relieve his mouth of the welling blood when it became too much to swallow. It wouldn’t do to have him drown, not when they were this far along, not when he could stroke his thumb along the top and bottom of that ruined, refined mouth, dancing against the gaps, the holes, the rigid bone past trauma-swollen tissue that created two demented labia.   
  
Adrenaline must have built up in the seraph’s system. Though he cried, though he still gave the occasional agonized shriek when he probed, he seemed more relaxed, somehow.    
  
His own earlier words drifted back into his brain, and he drank them. Digested with haste.    
  
The little one...didn’t like pain yet.   
  
But maybe the inkling was there, the seedling planted. The vines would grow. Would choke.    
  
He’d be alright in the end, like this. He’d be beautiful. He’d be his.   
  
Elation fluttered from his own mouth in a sigh that was almost embarrassing. Like a troubled parent (and not just “like”), fretting over the affectations and behavior of his ageing boy. Growing pains, foisted on them both by destiny.    
  
But the cure was in sight. The nuance was there, glazed over a mouthful of salt. He’d be just fine. He’d fit nice into the spot on the mantle that Daddy was keeping dusted off for him.   
  
The birthday boy found his mouth prised apart, wide, dripping. Needy.   
  
No longer could he wait. If he continued down this path and rode the train of thought, he would end up sneaking into that which he was saving. He would break him in early, and that required more ceremony. More build-up. A special occasion, becoming a man, and then unbecoming in the exact moment, into naught but a series of valuable holes. Oh, to be the man that could drag an angel from heaven and so debase him!   
  
And oh, that man was him.    
  
Daddy rolled him to his side, held him there, let him brace against his thigh, as once more, he slid his length against the cherry blossoms of his lips, now slick.   
  
Aroused.   
  
Ah, yes.    
  
_ You want this _ .   
  
With this positioning, it would be...just like her, vertically placed, mimicking her aching gash, her swollen folds. All he’d have to do was think of her face, and that was easy enough, when her spawn was shoved in tight against him. Their spawn. He rumbled, spat a curse in gibberish to the test that strived to prove otherwise. No husband but him.   
  
_ His _ .   
  
There weren’t words for it, for the bliss that followed. His soft little hands, the tightness of his thighs hadn’t prepared him for the veracity, the inherent gospel of his mouth. Earlier had been nothing. A fluke. Foreplay. Now, as he pressed between injuries, as he found himself buried against a tongue that seemed to lick him in atonement, he found what he’d been missing. This should have been done long ago, when he was even more pliant, when he hadn’t had the wherewithal to try and grow adult teeth to begin with.   
  
But as things stood, or rather lay, there was no use mourning the past, the decisions that he no longer could wrap his filthy mind around. There was now, and now he was stuffing inch upon inch of lovely hung cock into the waiting cunt that was meant for him, and ah, how despicable and righteous was the groan that spilled out of him…   
  
Push came to shove, and back to push again. Different, fucking an actual orifice after so long. How had he ever made due with things like limbs when sopping ambrosia such as this existed? Why? He knew the answer, knew his own code, his timeline for how the kid’s education should take place, but there was a faint disappointment in the back of his mind, ticking, scratching away with a rat’s tenacity. Impatience wouldn’t be harbored in the long run.   
  
It would be tolerated to some degree now, as he found the back of that throat, breached it, laughed breathily and in bliss as he felt a gag. He’d never let him lose that. He’d never let him learn how to take it right. There would always be a misery to this, as there was in all things.  **That** was growing up, after all.   
  
And Daddy never, ever lied. Right?   
  
The absurdity of his own thoughts made him snort, made him roll the head of his dick over and over again up into a cheek, then back down his maw again.   
  
Out, to let him spit, to let him gag and shudder, to let him sob-sob-sob.   
  
And then back in.    
  
Baptism, at his age, in the mouth of his little watch. Bathed in fluids he created. Encouraged. Fostered. He’d milk them again and again. Perhaps other things, soon. And then eventually, he’d be bred the same way his mother was, bent over like a sow, bred like a bitch. It was her fault, after all. All her fault.   
  
Occasionally, Daddy had to hold that little jaw to keep him from biting down. Even without teeth, the mandible bone could bruise him awfully. But there wasn’t much fight left. Just raw instinct, need, and pleading eyes.    
  
Wretched.   
  
Beautiful.   
  
He’d have this pussy again. He’d have it every night, maybe after it healed a bit, to stave off a little of the spittle, the profuse bleed. Bile swaddling his cock, coupled with spittle his boy would learn to will up in spite of himself.   
  
Now, he grabbed his angel up by his nose, pinched it close, dragged it forward, and let him drink his Daddy’s cum in sputtering bursts, let the head of him bump the back of his throat.   
  
The flavor...was almost certainly atrocious. He knew it, from the way the boy heaved, from how he shuddered, gave one more struggle, then gave in. One tiny swallow was all he managed. One tiny drink. It was enough for now. It was enough to know he’d swallow at all.   
  
“Good boy.”   
  
It was the first time he’d ever purred that sequence, and mocking as it was, he could see how it thrilled up and down a spine that was growing in will and want.   
  
Some moments later he was allowed to breathe with regularity, and to sort himself out.   
  
Liquids, for the next several days. Maybe a couple of weeks. This was going to take antibiotics, and he didn’t want to spare too much more beyond healing up the ruins of his removed ivories. An infection might mean removing the jaw entirely.    
  
And though...the sight of that, an opening to fuck him  **deeper** \--   
  
No.    
  
It would ruin her. The image. The illusion.   
  
Angel curled up and held his hands over his mouth, though if it was pain or horror...his Daddy wasn’t completely sure.   
  
He certainly wasn’t eating any cake today. But he’d been good, just like the lady on the screen. No...better.    
  
An ideal retirement.   
  
(happy birthday to you)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your lips to me are rubies, your eyes are diamonds fair  
> so while I’ve got you, my baby  
> I’m as rich as a millionaire 
> 
> —
> 
> -jerking off hand motion-
> 
> Have this finally  
> Also prepare for canon tie-ins getting heavy next chapter

**Author's Note:**

> All my trials soon be over.


End file.
